


Murder Most Horrid

by the_random_writer



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ty, Zane, Nick and Deacon gather to solve a grisly murder. Set in the gap between 'Stars & Stripes' and 'Touch & Geaux'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder Most Horrid

Nick let out a weary sigh, took a long, slow swig of his drink, then set it down on the coffee table, taking particular care to place it squarely and safely on the coaster, lest he invoke the Wrath of Ty.

He glanced slowly around the compact living room, gradually gathering the attention of his three companions in this hellish adventure. They said nothing, but simply looked at him in anticipation, waiting for him to make his move.

"I think I know what happened," he told them. "I think I know how we ended up with a dead body."

He kept his voice calm and steady, even though his palms were sweating, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't want the others to realize how nervous he was. Not that they could really blame him if some of his anxiety leaked out around the edges. He was about to make a very serious accusation, with no take backs or corrections allowed. To make matters worse, it was something of a no-win situation. If he was right, his friendship with Ty might take some serious damage. If he was wrong, his record would acquire a massive black mark, and he would never live the failure down.

He looked at each companion in turn, trying to gauge their reactions to his dramatic announcement.

Deacon Grady sat in the comfortable chair on his right. 

Nick couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor guy. He'd only stopped in to see Ty and Zane on the way home from a conference down in DC, and now he was up to his eyeballs in the gruesome details of a horrendous murder. He was doing his best to look as if he understood what was going on, but Nick could tell from the way he was frowning that he was struggling to keep up. No huge surprise there. Deacon was probably the smartest guy in the room, but he didn't have as much experience as the rest of them in these matters, and was nowhere near as familiar with the various procedures and rules. Zane had been very patient with him, taking the time to explain things as much as possible, but it was a lot to absorb in such a short space of time. It didn't help that Ty kept trying to bend the rules and do things his own way. Why the FBI hadn't long since thrown the man out on his ear, Nick honestly had no idea.

The rule bender in question was perched on the edge of the couch, at the other side of the coffee table. He looked tense and uncomfortable. Guilty, one might even say. No. That was too strong a word by far. But if Nick didn't know better, he would swear on the grave of St. Patrick that his oldest and closest friend didn't want him to solve this case.

 _Interesting_ , as Deacon was so fond of saying.

Only Zane, sitting in the leather recliner on his left, was totally calm and serene. His demeanour was that of a man with no strategy or hidden agenda, a man who only wanted to hear the truth about how and why the victim had died.

Nick sighed again, and glanced down at his notes, mentally reviewing the facts of the case. He'd seen plenty of murders in his time, some of them more gory than others, and knew from experience that this would have been a really horrible way to go. He could only hope that his own demise, whenever it finally came (hopefully many years from now), was quicker, cleaner and much less unpleasant.

"It wasn't easy, you know," he explained. "Solving a case like this never is. I must have worked dozens of them by now. Sometimes the clues come fast and hard, and I can figure out the answer really quickly. Sometimes I have no idea what's going on, and I have to make an educated guess before I run out of time, or someone beats me to the punch."

Zane snorted quietly. Like he'd never done that.

"This wasn't the simplest case I've ever had to solve, but it wasn't the most complicated either."

Ty huffed loudly, finally running out of patience.

"Irish, enough already," he complained. "We've been going round in circles on this for hours, and we need it to be over. If you know who killed the poor bastard, just fucking tell us. Spare us the Columbo routine."

Nick nodded slightly, acknowledging his friend's desire to wrap things up so they could all go on with their lives.

"The victim was killed in the kitchen. And they were strangled with this," he said, holding his hand above the long, slender piece of rope lying in the middle of the table. He was very careful not to touch it. His caution wasn't strictly necessary, but professional habits died hard.

Ty leaned his face on his fist, and drummed his fingers loudly on the arm of the couch. 

Nick took the hint and got straight to the point. 

"I suggest it was Miss White. In the kitchen. With the rope."

Everyone looked to Zane for confirmation of Nick's suggestion. He'd made a very similar accusation two rounds ago. And he'd been wrong, as it turned out, which meant he'd been sitting on the sidelines ever since, no longer able to actively participate in the game.

Zane grinned, and flipped Nick a jaunty salute. 

"You got it," he said, and held out the envelope containing the 'facts' of the case, so the Irishman could see for himself.

Nick punched his fist in the air. Another game, another victory, and his perfect record remained intact.

Ty pushed himself up from the couch, cursing loudly. 

"God damn it, why can't I ever win this game?" he demanded in a plaintive voice, throwing his notes on the table in disgust.

"Because it's a game of logic, Six," Nick explained, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "And I guess you're just not logical enough."

"Fuck you, Irish," Ty retorted. "I'll have you know I am a very logical person."

Deacon started to laugh, but quickly turned it into a cough. His older brother had many wonderful qualities, but an abundance of logic had never been one of them.

Nick rolled his eyes. He wasn't buying it either.

"Ty, do you remember the game we played when we lived in Jacksonville?" he said. "The one you could have won, but didn't, because you refused to accuse your own character token?"

Ty folded his arms across his chest, suddenly feeling defensive.

"You know I don't like it when that happens," he said quietly. "It makes me extremely uncomfortable. Especially because I apparently used the lead pipe. And because I apparently killed them in the ballroom. You all know I would be much more efficient than that."

Zane nodded, acknowledging his boyfriend's point. Ty would always use the gun. Or maybe the dagger, in a pinch. He certainly wouldn't use something as louche as the lead pipe. And he would do it in the kitchen or the bathroom, for easy cleanup. You couldn't use bleach on a carpet, or some of the older hardwood floors. Ceramic tile was far and away the best surface.

"And what about the game we played that time down at Digger's place?" Nick went on. "When you could have won, but didn't, because you refused to believe Miss Scarlett would have used the wrench?" 

Ty huffed in protest. "I'll have you know that was an _extremely_ logical deduction," he shot back. "I've taken all of the FBI's profiling courses, and I know for a fact that a wrench is almost always a man's weapon. So I couldn't make the accusation, because the facts of the case were completely unrealistic."

Deacon snickered quietly. Only Ty.

Nick groaned. "It's not supposed to be realistic, Six. It's a fucking board game," he almost shouted.

"Well it's not _my_ fault I have standards," Ty protested.

Right. Standards. That's what Ty had. Not a head full of twitchy, chattering, irrational squirrels. No sir, not at all.

Nick shook his head, and threw up his hands in surrender. They'd had this conversation before, and would no doubt have it again, with the same ridiculous result. _Welcome to the B. Tyler Grady Friendship Experience. Patience recommended, but not required. Please leave your shoes and your sanity at the door_.

Ty grunted, and stomped away to the kitchen in search of something to eat, muttering quietly under his breath.

Deacon watched his brother go, then puffed out a sigh of relief. This had been his first ever game of Clue, but after watching how Ty and his friends played it, he was quite sure it would also be his last. Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, after a fashion. But he was a psychiatrist. If he had to sit in a small room for two hours, watching grown men slowly wage a psychological war on each other, he wanted to be paid for his troubles. Or to at least accumulate enough material for an article in the AJP.

"If you guys ever want me to play this game with you again, you're gonna have to do a much better job of explaining the rules," he told them. "Because I swear to God, half of the time, I had absolutely no fucking idea what the hell I was supposed to be doing."

"It's all about deduction and logic," Nick explained. "Gradually eliminating the impossible."

"Until whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true," Zane chimed in, completing the famous quote.

That was the theory anyway. But as his own disastrous guess had demonstrated, sometimes the theory didn't quite work. He was still backtracking in his head, thinking about all of the questions he'd asked, trying to figure out exactly where he'd gone wrong.

Ty returned from the kitchen, carrying a consolatory bag of Cheetos, his face still set in a mildly disgruntled glare.

"I don't know who I'm more annoyed at right now. You for kicking my ass, _again_ ," he complained, poking Nick in the shoulder, "or you for giving me hope that someone might be able to beat Irish, then fucking it all up at the last minute," he added, throwing a handful of Cheetos at Zane.

Zane shrugged, picked up one of the discarded Cheetos, and popped it into his mouth. He'd enjoyed what he'd played of the game, and he didn't really care about losing. It was all part of the fun.

"I'm still trying to figure out where I fucked up," he replied. "I paid very close attention to how all of you responded to each suggestion, and I was absolutely _sure_ about the gun. So either my system for taking notes isn't as good as I thought it was, or some of you were lying when you said you didn't have the requested cards."

Zane looked straight at Ty as he spoke. Ty quietly cleared his throat, and focused on the scratch in the middle of the table.

He had no idea what Zane was talking about. He never lied about his cards. Unless he thought Nick was lying about his cards as well. And he'd long since learned the hard way that when it came to Clue, the sneaky Irish bastard lied like a fucking rug. Kelly had once pinned a photo of the Pope to the middle of the board, in a desperate attempt to keep him honest. A nice idea at the time, but it hadn't worked worth a damn.

"I don't understand why you would even lie about what cards you have in the first place," Deacon complained. "It's supposed to be a game of deduction, where you gradually put clues together to form a logical conclusion. It's not supposed to be poker. Or is it?"

Nick grinned, and picked up his drink. "C'mon, man. You're a psychiatrist. You should understand how this works. It's not just about making sure you win. It's about making sure everyone else loses at the same time," he explained.

Zane rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You can take the boy out of the war, but you can't take the war out of the boy."

"Sidewinder takes its board games very seriously, Zane," Ty interjected as he flopped back on to the couch, his bag of Cheetos still in hand. "It's like General Patton said. Sport is just war without the shooting."

Zane frowned. "Pretty sure it wasn't Patton who said that, doll."

"George Orwell," Deacon added, nodding.

"What?" Ty asked, looking from boyfriend to brother, obviously confused.

"Zane's right," Deacon explained. "It was George Orwell who said that. Not General Patton. And I don't think Orwell meant it in a good way."

"Really? Oh. That's... disappointing," Ty murmured. 

Patton had all the best quotes. It sounded like something he should have said. Screw George Orwell. What the hell did some dead English writer guy know about shooting things anyway?

"But my point still stands," Ty continued. "You wanna see Sidewinder get _really_ riled up? Never mind paintball or laser tag or explosive lawn darts. You sit all of us down around a fucking Monopoly board."

Nick snorted in agreement. "Make Ozone the banker."

"Don't let Digger use the battleship," Ty added.

"Get so fucking hammered you agree to some asshole's suggestion of playing the game with real money," Nick shot back, glaring furiously at Ty.

This time, it was Ty's turn to grin like a jackal. Now _that_ had been a good night. He'd been able to buy a month's supply of good beer with the money he'd made from the rest of the squad. Nick might be Sidewinder's version of Columbo, but he was Sidewinder's version of Donald Trump. He didn't have the dubious hair. Or the hot, supermodel wife. Or the raging, uncontrollable ego. Okay, maybe a _tiny_ bit. But when it came to Monopoly, he could build hotels and stiff people for rent at a level that was almost an Olympic sport.

They'd stolen most of the beer from him, of course, and left him with a measly six bottles. He'd been genuinely surprised by their generosity. In their shoes, he would maybe have left him with two.

"Irish, you should thank your lucky stars I've only made that suggestion once, and only for Monopoly instead of Clue," Ty said.

Nick frowned. "Tyler, I don't know if you've noticed, and this might explain why you never win a game, but you don't play Clue with or for money," he pointed out.

"Yes, Nicholas, I am aware of that," Ty replied in a snarky tone. "But gimme a week's notice, and I'm pretty sure I could arrange for us to play Clue in a real mansion. Then I'd fill the place with real weapons. And not the lame-ass weapons from the game, either. My setup would be _much_ better. I'd have everything from a bear trap to a harpoon gun to a semi-automatic assault rifle. Maybe even a flamethrower, to keep Digger happy. Then I'd put a real dead body in the basement, with some really grisly looking wounds," he explained, his hazel eyes flashing with enthusiasm. 

He was on a roll now. The squirrels were dialled all the way up to eleven.

"Then we could all dress up as one of the characters. Nick would be Reverend Green, obviously. Kelly would be Doctor White. Digger would have to be Plum. He's the only one of us who can wear purple without looking like he's escaped from the circus. Don't think he'd want to be Professor Plum, though. Make him Private Plum instead. Or even General Plum. Fuck it. Ooh, and then Ozone could be Captain Scarlet! He looks great in red. It really brings out the colour of his eyes. Not sure who would be Mustard. That's a fucking terrible colour. Might have to change it to something sexier. Like Black. Or Grey. Yeah! Agent Grey. Then Zane could wear his charcoal suit. And I could wear my blue suit. But I'd need a better name. Because Peacock is completely ridiculous. I mean, it has the word 'cock' in it, for Christ's sake. Hmm. What's a good character name based on blue..."

Ty popped some Cheetos into his mouth, and munched on them slowly, staring into the distance, thinking hard.

Nick looked at Zane, then at Deacon, then back at Zane, then at Ty.

"Beaumont, please don't take this the wrong way," he said, in an unnaturally quiet voice, "but sometimes the way your brain works really, _really_ scares me."

"Only sometimes?" Deacon murmured.

"But where the hell would you find a dead body?" Zane enquired, not even sure he should be pushing the discussion any further.

Ty snapped out of his creative reverie.

"That shouldn't be too hard. The night shift guy down at the city morgue owes me a favour. Pretty sure he could rustle up a John Doe for me," he said, then shrugged nonchalantly, as if asking someone to lend you a dead body for the day was the most normal thing in the world.

Zane frowned, opened his mouth to ask Ty what kind of favour, then promptly closed it again. On second thoughts, he didn't need or want to know.

Then he laughed out loud, as inspiration suddenly struck.

"Hey, doll, I know what you could call your character, instead of Mister Peacock," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Deacon winced. This was going to be bad. He could just tell.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Ty asked.

"You could be ultramarine. Get it? Major Ultra-Marine?" Zane proclaimed, obviously delighted with his punny creation.

Nick groaned in desperation.

"Garrett, I swear to God, you ever come up with another suggestion as terrible as that, Ty won't need to go to the city morgue," he warned.

"Because you won't be playing Agent Grey. _You'll_ be playing the dead body."


End file.
